Croissants and Jam

by Lynda Renham

  Dad looks at her over his glasses but says nothing.

  ‘You will feel guilty if Simon kills himself won’t you?’ Alex glares at me.

  I stop in my tracks. Oh my God, is he suicidal?

  ‘He’s not talking suicide is he?’

  ‘Good Lord,’ gasps Dad.

  We hover in the doorway. Alex looks sheepish.

  ‘No, but the fact he hasn’t mentioned it, surely means, he is more likely to do it,’ she says confidently.

  Dad gives her a puzzled look.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ he says nodding seriously.

  Oh for God’s sake.

  ‘I really don’t think he is going to be suicidal over me. In fact, he has offered to take Kaz to the fashion show,’ I say in my defence.

  I look at Alex and send a silent prayer to God, asking him please don’t ever let me be this hormonal if I ever get pregnant.

  ‘Don’t upset yourself darling, think of the baby,’ chips in my mum. As if Alex does anything else except think about her baby, her pregnancy and her bloody epidural. I feel like I am on epidural overload.

  So here we are, or at least here I am, sitting in the hotel lounge with my parents and sister, trying to think of an excuse to leave and sort my life out. It had occurred to me to try and contact Christian. There isn’t anything illegal in that but I finally decide against it. I feel sure that if he wanted to get in touch with me, he would. The last thing I need to do is make a bigger fool of myself than I already have done. Edward had phoned to say goodbye, but there had been no word from Rosa. In six hours I will be back home in my own flat. I had booked a week off for the honeymoon and have decided to go to a spa in Milton Keynes for a few days and spend the voucher Mum and Dad gave me for Christmas. I thought I would go shopping while there. Not that I have ever been to Milton Keynes mind you, or even fancied it to tell you the truth, but the name sounds cool.

  ‘I had better go and pack,’ says Alex with a tone of finality and a peck on my cheek.

  ‘I have no idea what to tell them at the WI. I mean, they are expecting photos and everything. I told them about my Stella McCartney dress and your designer wedding gown. Oh, it is just too embarrassing. It wouldn’t sound so bad if he had jilted you,’ says Mother, wringing her hands.

  I stare at her.

  ‘Wow, thanks Mum,’ I say finally.

  It comes to something when your mother is more worried about the Women’s Institute than she is about you.

  ‘Well, you didn’t think about any of us when you jilted Simon,’ she admonishes.

  I try not to sigh. I kiss Kaz and Mum goodbye and hug my dad before climbing into the waiting taxi. At last, I am on my way home. Once at the airport I relax. I check the flight board and then sit in the departure lounge. I stupidly expect Christian to walk in, but of course, he doesn’t. I board my flight on time, find my seat and fiddle with the in-flight magazine.

  ‘Good Lord,’ exclaims a voice that I can’t quite place. I look up to see the beaming round face of Kevin, the businessman from the London to Rome flight. I find myself staring at him and then look around suspiciously as though expecting Jeremy Beadle to jump out of the cockpit.

  ‘Wow, this is uncanny,’ I say eventually.

  ‘Did you get married?’ he asks bluntly, looking pointedly at the empty seat beside me.

  I shake my head.

  ‘I heard about a big wedding upset back at the hotel. I did wonder if it was you.’

  Oh great, I am big news.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll be in the hotel newsletter,’ I say cynically.

  He taps me on the knee.

  ‘I’ll buy you a drink after we have taken off.’

  Of course, I end up totally opening my heart to him and in return, Kevin gives me what I can only term the worst advice ever.

  ‘It sounds like that landlord is ripping you off for a start,’ he says knowledgeably, nodding his head. ‘I know a thing or two about the rental business you know.’

  Ripping me off? Well, I guess on reflection he is taking advantage of my situation. But, I explain to Kevin, I have nowhere else to go and that another flat may well cost me more.

  ‘He has you by your balls then, if you’ll pardon my French.’

  I pull a face in agreement.

  ‘Trust me on this. You need to move back to your parents. That’s the best thing,’ he assures me with a wink of his eye.

  Good God, no one could possibly call that good advice. How can I possibly live with my mother? I would commit matricide in less than a week, well maybe a month, but I would most certainly kill the bloody dog before a week was out. I’d be drinking strange tea, meditating and watching re-runs of Strictly Come Dancing. God I would rather slit my throat.

  ‘Also, when it comes to relationships I have a sixth sense, it’s as clear as day to me. You want to cut all ties with that family of Simon’s and you don’t want to see that Christian ever again.’

  I don’t? That seems a bit drastic.

  ‘Give up your job and make a new start, be a secretary or something. That’s the way forward for you my dear.’

  Be a secretary? Jesus, don’t you need to type with all your fingers for a job like that? The only thing that walks across a keyboard when I type is my right and left index finger. Of course, he doesn’t buy me a drink. Instead, he sleeps the best part of the journey, mostly on my shoulder and what’s more, he not only snored but dribbled as well. My French supermarket top is very wet by the time we arrive in London. Oh, but what a wonderful sight is a British airport. Kevin helps me with my luggage and even offers to share a taxi with me. I refuse politely. As nice as Kevin is, I really don’t want too many reminders of my trip. I collect the key from the landlord and make my way to my flat, almost crying at the sight of it. So here we are, or at least here I am, back in my London pad. Thirty years old and still single, and the prospect of carrying red roses and paperback copies of Pride and Prejudice looking more likely by the minute. I glance at my wedding finger, now devoid of a ring and wonder if Simon really will return it to the jeweller. I am suddenly very aware of my age and the fact that my body clock is ticking like a time bomb. I lug my suitcase into the bedroom and dump it on the bed and sit beside it. Right, the fridge will be empty, as will all the cupboards. Oh dear, this really is like starting all over again. I take a deep breath, grab my handbag and head to Waitrose, without a bloody Clubcard thank God.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It’s been well over a month since the wedding that never was and I still can’t seem to get my head around work. I spend hours staring at my keyboard and wondering about Christian and whether he ever thinks of phoning me. Whichever way it goes, he never does. Then I spend hours on end being grateful that he hasn’t and hope that he has lost my number. So, it came as no surprise when my boss called me in for a meeting.

  ‘Bels, sweetie, do you want to tell me what is going on?’

  I flop into a chair and look across the large mahogany desk at Justin. I pull a face at the purple streak in his hair.

  ‘Purple suits you,’ I lie.

  His eyebrows arch.

  ‘I didn’t call you in here to talk about my hair and don’t bloody lie,’ he replies, running his hand through his shoulder length locks.

  I sigh. Oh well, no harm in trying to change the subject.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I mumble. ‘My mind has not been on work.’

  He nods.

  ‘Is it Simon?’ he asks kindly.

  ‘God, no,’ I reply quickly and bite my lip.

  His eyebrows rise again and he looks at me questioningly.

  ‘You write a shite article, forget to arrange a car for Kathy Monroe, no less…Thank God, she has forgiven us, and you faff around the office like some bimbo.’

  I cringe.

  ‘But worse, you send Gabrielle to cover the Paris fashion show exactly one month too early. I mean, I can’t abide lateness but that was ridiculous.’

  ‘Yeah, I really don’t know how I got th
ose dates mixed up,’ I say wrinkling my forehead.

  He shakes his head.

  ‘And the hotel you booked for the sports fashion exhibition was ten miles from the centre. Are we all expected to run, in our fashionable sports kit, from the hotel to the exhibition hall?’

  I pull a face.

  ‘In my defence, I have sorted that out now,’ I argue feebly.

  He stands up and towers his lean body over me.

  ‘I want you to take a holiday.’

  I also stand up and my head collides with his chest.

  ‘But I’ve just had…

  ‘Am I the boss, or am I the boss?’

  I nod.

  ‘Okay then. Now, in just over a week we have the big McQueen shoot with India Pilano and I need you here for that because you have organised everything. But, after that, I want you to take yourself off somewhere for two weeks.’

  ‘Two weeks,’ I cry. My God, what am I going to do with myself for two whole weeks? I’ve already been to the spa and shopping at Milton Keynes. Shit, he really cannot be serious, surely?

  ‘But, really Justin, work is the best place to get my mind off things,’ I say, trying not to plead.

  ‘Yes, but most of the time your mind is off work, sweetie. You are the best features editor I have, but right now you are bloody useless to me. Yesterday you spent longer making coffee and washing up than you did on your bloody computer. I don’t need a bloody Stepford wife working here.’

  Oh dear. I open my mouth to speak but am saved from pleading by the ringing of the phone. Justin leans behind him and clicks on the speaker phone.

  ‘Justin Rowley,’ he barks.

  ‘Oh Justin, it’s Bels’ mother, Kitty. I did phone her office and Kaz said she was in a meeting with you. I wonder if I could have a quick word. It’s a bit urgent.’

  ‘Ah, Kitty, you have another emergency. Never quiet in your house is it?’

  Justin frowns and I pull a face.

  ‘So, how is the dog, I forget its name? Did you sort out that little emergency with its paw yesterday?’

  Mother gives a little embarrassed cough.

  ‘Oh yes.’

  He rolls his eyes,

  ‘Ah good, as I would hate to think I called Bels out of an important photo shoot for nothing. So what is the emergency today Kitty? Does the dog have worms now? Oh no, that was Monday’s problem wasn’t it?’

  I feel myself cringe.

  ‘Oh, I won’t keep her five minutes,’ reassures my mother.

  ‘Well, that’s fine. We’re only on a conference call with Brad Pitt. I’ll just put him on hold on line two while you discuss your little emergency. I am sure he won’t mind in the least. Your mother, I believe,’ says Justin, handing the phone over. I blush furiously.

  ‘Mother, what are you doing phoning me at work again? I am in the middle of an important meeting.’

  ‘Oh Justin doesn’t mind. I didn’t know Brad Pitt was a client. You never mention it.’

  I quickly turn off the speaker phone so she doesn’t hear Justin’s deep sigh.

  ‘Mother, you can’t keep phoning me at work like this, what is it this time?’

  She makes a tutting sound.

  ‘I need you to come over after work and help me sort through all the things for the auction, and I don’t want you making any plans for Saturday. It’s the fund raiser for Kat’s son.’

  I let out a groan,

  ‘Mum, I am not coming to the fund raiser. I will be bored to death.’

  ‘Corinne’s son will be there. He is recently divorced and very well off. He is desperate to get married again. He is…’

  Oh no.

  ‘Not now Mum. I’m at work.’

  ‘Don’t eat, okay? Dad can fetch you and take you back, that way you can have some wine with us. We will discuss it later.’

  The phone goes dead and I stare apologetically at Justin.

  ‘She’s worried about me,’ I explain.

  He flicks his hair back.

  ‘Sweetie that is why I am giving you a holiday, so you can go away for two weeks and give us all a break from your mother.’

  I nod reluctantly, knowing he is right. I have been back at work almost three weeks now and they might as well hire a dishcloth for all the good I have been. My mind seems to be constantly on my spinsterhood. I did worry for the first week about Simon and if he was coping okay. Kaz, however, has seen him a few times now and tells me, he is doing just fine which is more than can be said for me. Christian has not been in touch, not that I really expected him to be. I have finally stopped looking at his photo on Google and abandoned all ideas of requesting his friendship on Facebook. I spend my evenings eating cheese on toast or marmite sandwiches and watching old episodes of Friends. I mean, how bloody depressing is that? Mother phones twice a day. Once at work and again in the evening when I get home, and I beginning to wonder if I am on suicide watch. Justin taps me on the shoulder.

  ‘Go home early sweetie and look for holidays on the Internet.’

  A holiday for one, oh yes, very appealing, not.

  ***

  ‘It is very generous of him to let you have two weeks like that.’

  I place wine glasses on the table and smile at my dad who looks at me over his spectacles.

  ‘Yes, but a holiday alone, I mean, where can I go?’ I try not to sound too ungrateful.

  ‘I think India would be a wonderful place to go. It is so exotic,’ says my mother, almost dropping a steak and kidney pie onto the table mat. I return to the kitchen and fetch the salt and pepper while my dad carries in roast potatoes. My stomach rumbles at the smell of them and my mouth waters at the sight of the apple crumble sitting on the hob. I attempt to ignore the Stella McCartney ‘mother of the bride dress’ that hangs in the hallway. Mother has decided to auction it off at her fancy fund raiser for her cleaner’s son who is going blind. I have no idea why he is going blind or even why my mother wants to get so involved in raising money for his private treatment. The problem with having a do-gooder mother is that you almost always get dragged into her good works.

  ‘Maybe Annabel doesn’t want exotic,’ argues Dad.

  I pile roast potatoes onto my plate and wait while Mother cuts the pie.

  ‘Of course she does,’ replies Mum taking my plate and piling it high with steak and kidney pie.

  I shrug at my dad who sighs resignedly and hands me the gravy dish. At last some decent food. After tucking into forkfuls of pie and potato I finally take a gulp of wine and sigh contentedly. My mother’s pastry really is superb and the steak is beautifully tender and moist. But best of all, are her roast potatoes, golden brown and perfectly crispy. I must admit, if anything could tempt me back home it has to be Mother’s perfect roast potatoes.

  ‘Are you meditating?’ she asks, carefully spooning peas into her mouth.

  I nod, although of course I am not. I did try lighting the joss sticks she gave me but after just ten minutes the smell of them had given me a thumping headache and instead of meditating I had gone to bed with two Paracetamol. Candice barges through the lounge doorway and proceeds to lick my feet. I cringe and pull them up underneath me.

  ‘Your mother tells me, you are helping with the fund raiser on Saturday,’ says my dad pulling Candice off me.

  I nod reluctantly.

  ‘Of course she is helping. It will keep her mind off things. Besides I want her to meet Jack Russell.’ Mum looks at me over her glass of wine.

  ‘Jack Russell,’ I splutter. Who the hell is Jack Russell? And do I really want to meet him? Jesus, couldn’t he have had a better name than a breed of dog?

  ‘Mum, I really don’t think it is a good idea. I mean it has only been a few weeks…’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she snaps, cutting more pie and plonking it onto my plate. ‘It is like riding a bicycle. You have to get back on again quickly.’

  I stare open-mouthed at her. Like riding a bicycle? She surely is not serious?

  ‘Well…’ I begin.
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br />   ‘Jack is very nice and the perfect catch. Okay, he may not be a solicitor but he earns just as much. He is a self-made man and you have to respect that,’ she says looking hopefully at my dad who sits with half a roast potato poised by his mouth. He swallows quickly.

  ‘Well, I agree, he is nice enough but I really don’t know if he is Bels’ type.’

  My mother jerks her head back and looks as if she is about to have an apoplectic fit.

  ‘What do you mean? Of course he is her type. He is rich, successful and wears fashionable clothes.’

  Oh, that sums it up then, my type in three words, rich, successful and fashionable. Bloody hell, I sound shallow.

  ‘Preferably, with a bit of a brain,’ I add.

  ‘And not brash and showy, which he most definitely is,’ throws in my father between potatoes.

  ‘He can afford to be brash. Besides, it is probably a cover for the pain he had to endure by that terrible wife of his. Corinne said she is perfectly beastly and only had her eyes on the…’

  ‘I thought you said he was available,’ I break in, pouring more wine for myself and Dad, feeling we both may well need it if we intend to take on my mother.

  ‘He is divorced, darling. I did tell you. It has been six weeks now, but oh dear she did take him to the cleaners.’

  ‘Women,’ exclaims Dad, as he throws a potato to Candice.

  I really am not in the mood for men right now, well at least not this one. A vision of Christian leaning over the Lemon enters my head and I quickly push the memory away.

  ‘Why do you need my help with the fund raiser anyway?’ I say miserably, beginning to think that a two-week holiday, or at least a two-week break, from my mother would not be such a bad idea after all.

  ‘I still have so many things to price up and I need you to start the bidding for the dress. It will look really good if you introduce it, you being in the fashion business and everything.’

  I sigh heavily.

  ‘As long as I don’t have to say you bought it for the wedding that never was.’

  Dad forces a laugh.

  ‘Of course not,’ my mother reassures me, while giving Dad a dirty look. ‘It will be a good opportunity to meet Jack. He is bringing Corinne, his mother. You remember Corinne, she had that stroke a year ago and…’